Poem: This Ain’t Paris

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This ain’t Paris or Montremarre
No matter the romanticism
That we try to portray
The reality is the ugliness
That we once celebrated
Rust can be beautiful
Weeds can be flowers
But they are still decay

I watch the snow pile
Disappear
Turn into dirt and ice
And a hundred cigarette butts
The mysteries of winter
Now revealed
Flowers don’t grow through sidewalks

We become boring
Stagnant
Assholes
Objects of hatred and envy
Clandestine decisions
Cultural legacies
Too many meetings
Too many discussions
Not enough action
But you’d never know
We raise the flag
But I stand in its shadow

My first face
Appears better online
Passionate and powerful
Meanwhile
I’m just one man
In a little room
With some paint and pencils
Waiting for appointments
That don’t seem to happen

Be patient, I’m told
All is coming our way
Hard work will soon pay off
I’m alone
No smiling child to bring me joy
No loving hands that hold mine
Everything temporary
While I attempt
To create permanence
For others

These colours I wear
Are not necessarily pride
These are simply the only things
That I had come out of the laundry

©2015 James Takeo

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